


how can you swallow so much sleep

by laufehson



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Awkward Flirting, Fluff, Football Games, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension, but i added some angst to spice things up, you thought this was happy? well. you're right
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-21 10:42:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3689235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laufehson/pseuds/laufehson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Everything about this is absurd</i>, Maxwell thinks, with his fraying slippers and the gnome statue and the young child and the really, <i>really</i> hot guy; not to even mention the fucking <i>cereal</i>, but he perseveres and keeps his grip on the box as they walk over to the cashier.</p><p>or: “we're both at the grocery store at 3 am and you offered to arm wrestle me for the last box of cereal”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. of cereal boxes and awkward (en)counters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally, this was meant to be a quick oneshot, but it kinda got out of hand, and here we are. welcome to hell
> 
> title from bombay bicycle club's song "how can you swallow so much sleep" (literally the same thing) it's a great song so check it out!!!

There's only one semi-clean bowl left in his kitchen.

Maxwell sighs and grabs it, rubbing the small specks of dirt and various other food particles. The specks are stubborn, dammit, and he has to use his shirt to wipe some of it off. He holds it up to the dim light cast by the glow of the fridge and shrugs. There's still some weird yellow-ish stains on the bottom of the bowl, but it's not like that's the part he's eating out of, so, y'know, _good enough._

He throws the fridge door open, grips the milk, and takes it out of the fridge. He then moves over to where the cereal is: delicious corn flakes frosted with artificial sugar and God knows what else. With a cheery whistle, he pulls the box out of the cupboard.

 _It's empty_ , he realizes, his reaction not so much delayed as prolonged, and sits down on the cold kitchen floor. The forlorn crumbs of the cereal spill onto the floor, and he watches them skid across the tiles with a deep resignation. Ignoring the desire to lick the remains off the floor, he rolls onto his stomach and sighs.

He has, as of now, three options: forget about the cereal and go back to studying, go to the store to buy some more, or salvage a disgusting sandwich out of whatever is in his kitchen, including mustard, bread, pickles, and two-week old chinese.

Maxwell wrinkles his nose. None of the options sound even remotely appetizing; his stomach is practically shaking the ground with its rumbling, the closest, _open_ store is a seven minute walk in the dark, and he only keeps those pickles around for his friends, who are disgusting and eat them so often he feels ill even thinking about it.

He glances at his pile of textbooks. There's no way in hell he can focus with the ache in his belly, and he really _does_ have to study. The crisp white pages seem to taunt him, still in the dead air of a dreary morning. Maxwell stands and opens the fridge again, looks at the jar of pickles. Steeling himself, he reaches for it and places it on the counter, closes the door. He grips the lid and turns.

Nothing.

Maxwell grunts and braces his hip against the counter, twists again with all his might.

His hand protests, skin stinging from the burn of another futile attempt. He rocks back onto his heels, blows air out of his mouth, hands on hips. _Again_. He twists.

Once more, nothing.

He stares at it for a couple of minutes.

The store it is.

He grabs his coat, regards his bedraggled outfit in the hallway mirror. Sweatpants, a baggy sweater so overworn the print is faded, a black windbreaker, and slippers. He wiggles his toes, and one pokes through the worn moccasin fabric.

Perfect.

It's not like he'll see anyone important, after all.

 

* * *

 

The store is actually a gas station with a store attached; one of the most brilliant inventions of their time, in his opinion. There's even a terrifying-looking gnome outside, the height of a semi-truck and as wide as a bloody house. It's strange and off-putting, eyes-crossed and teeth jagged, but he's seen it so often that he doesn't even blink.

Automatic doors slide open with a comforting _whir_ and he steps inside, looks around with bliss writ over his features. There's only two other people in the store: another customer, wearing sweatpants _without holes_ and some fancy-looking sweater; and the cashier, a beat-down, dead looking teenager who should probably still be in middle school, let alone a convenience store at 3 am in the middle of a week. But he shrugs, because it's not really his business, he supposes, and makes his way towards the dry foods where he thinks the cereal will probably be.

He realizes, rather belatedly, that the other customer is on their way there as well. He speeds up, jogging now, in the middle of a convenience store at 3 am, and grabs the last box of cereal just as they do. He tugs. Their grip is relatively strong.

Maxwell stares at them in abject indignation.

The stranger stares back, Maxwell's expression mirrored on their face. Their gorgeous, hot-as-the-fiery-pits-of- _hell_ face. His mouth drops open, and he tries to cover it up by blurting out, “I was here first.”

Hot Stranger laughs, shakes his head. He has a mustache, for fuck's sake, that _shouldn't_ even be _half_ as attractive as it is, but it _is_ , and it twitches when he speaks.

“I'm afraid I was,” Really, Really Hot Stranger says. _For the love of God, he looks like a model_ , Max thinks dazedly. _Why is he at a convenience store when he looks like he belongs on a runway in Paris?_

Maxwell, although still slightly flabbergasted by the man he's fighting with, remembers why he's there, why he walked to a store at 3 am on a Wednesday wearing ratty slippers and sweatpants, and tugs on the box of Frosted Flakes (c). Mustache Man pulls it back, and Maxwell's grip tightens. "Oh, no," he snaps. His stomach echoes him, growling. He would probably be more threatening if he wasn’t wearing such ratty clothes, but _c’est la vie._

“No?” _Oh-My-God-What-Colour-Are-Your-Eyes-Even_ repeats. “I'll arm-wrestle you for it.”

 _Is he drunk?_ is Max's first thought, because honestly, he isn't blind, he's looked in a mirror lately, he knows his chest is built like a Dorito, his thighs are like tree trunks, and there's no way this lean, posh, mustached guy can beat him at arm-wrestling. It is offensive to even suggest as much. It should be fairly easy to see that he'd destroy this really, really hot guy. Like, wreck this twenty-on-a-ten-point-scale male specimen.

 _Wreck, Maxwell? Get your_ \- pinning him to the bed, wrists gripped in one of his hands and pressed against the headboard, hot kisses peppered along writhing golden skin - _bloody head out of the gutter, you pervert. You just met the guy, you don't even know his sexuality, and you're fighting over cereal while you picture him naked. New low, man. New low._

 _Shut up, me_ , he thinks.

“Fine,” he finally says out loud, and the stranger blinks owlishly, thick lashes fluttering in surprise.

“Well,” the stranger says, “that’s not what I was hoping for. You were _actually_ supposed to say, ‘No, good sir, you can have this box of delicious cereal, I'll be on my way.’ Not ‘fine.’”

He shrugs. “I'm not giving up that easily.”

“Evidently not,” the man mutters. “Fine, fine, be an utter ass. Let's ask that rather frightened cashier if we can use the counter.”

 _Everything about this is absurd_ , Maxwell thinks, with his fraying slippers and the gnome statue and the young child and the really, _really_ hot guy; not to even mention the fucking _cereal_ , but he perseveres and keeps his grip on the box as they walk over to the cashier.

“May we borrow your counter?” the man asks politely, far more polite than he was to Maxwell.

The girl's eyes are the size of saucers as she nods, backs away. The man goes to the other side and Max is forced to drop the cereal box as the man positions himself across from Maxwell, arm resting on the polished counter. Max props his elbow and waits, watches him as he hands the cereal to the cashier and whispers something to her. She stammers something in reply, gripping the cereal box with white knuckles.

“Best of three?” Hot Stranger asks.

Maxwell nods. “Best of three,” he agrees.

“I'm Dorian, by the way,” he says, and Max quietly buries that name deep, tucks it away beside this whole outrageous affair.

“Maxwell,” he says, in return. At least they know each other’s names.

“Nice to meet you, Maxwell,” Dorian murmurs, and _for the love of God_ , he makes it sound like they’re in a fucking _bedroom_ , and there’s a fourteen-year-old girl over there, but Maxwell doesn’t really care. He lets the words wash over him before grinning.

“Same to you, Dorian,” Maxwell says, and they grip hands.

“Go,” the girl squeaks, and they’re on.

The first round is over quickly. Dorian is stronger than he looks, but Maxwell played soccer for the majority of his life at a relatively high level (in fact, he’s on a scholarship to his university for soccer but that’s not that important at the moment), and if you’re going to run around a field for over two hours while being pushed around and shoved by Big Dudes, you learn to build up muscle. So Maxwell did, and he still has it, so when the girl says “Go,” he slams Dorian’s arm into the counter right out of the gate.

The other man’s eyebrows raise in surprise, something intangible flickering over his features before they’re schooled back into a mask. They reset. He looks at the girl. “Whenever you’re ready.”

She glances between the two of them, and Max gives her what he hopes is an encouraging nod. Whatever it is, it works, and she’s saying “Go” again.

Knowing he’s lost the element of surprise, Max strategizes to go on the defensive, where he will slowly but surely press his weight into the other man, gripping his hand and waiting for the right moment when his leverage is off. But before he can even so much as put pressure into their enclosed hands, Dorian’s other hand comes up to join his first hand and they shove his own arm into the counter.

“That’s cheating!” Maxwell exclaims, because, hello, it’s _arm_ -wrestling, not _arms_ -wrestling.

“You never said anything about not being able to use both arms,” Dorian retorts, but it’s sweetly delivered, and punches the air out of his lungs.

“It's common sense." A pause. Max sighs. "Fine. But you can’t do that again,” he warns, resetting. Dorian nods, grinning, a cocky smirk resting on his lips, and victory looks so _good_ on him.

 _There’s a little girl over there_ , he reminds himself, and suddenly he’s glad he wore loose pants.

“Of course,” Dorian says, and they’re at it again.

Max goes on the offensive, pressing all of his weight into their grip, and Dorian is doing the same, face scrunched in concentration as he focuses on the battle at hand. Max only looks up for a second, but their eyes meet, and then Dorian is leaning over the counter to press a kiss to his lips and all Max can register is s _oft, plump, taste like spices, but I can’t name them, what is that, why is that so familiar_ and then his arm is on the counter.

Somewhere off in the background, Maxwell hears a distant gurgle-like sound erupt from the cashier.

“Thank you,” Dorian says, plucking the cereal box out of the cashier’s hands.

Maxwell backs away as Dorian approaches the customer side of the counter, still smiling. The girl rings up the cereal box for him, and Max sighs in defeat and steps outside, the automatic doors’ _whir_ no longer comforting so much as distressing. He walks over to the giant, ugly gnome, and sits on one of its feet.

“That was bullshit,” he tells a gnome toe. “I just want my cereal.”

He’s being completely unreasonable, because there is literally an entire store of food not ten feet away from him, but he wants cereal, and now he can’t have it, because this hot asshole decided to kiss him when they were arm-wrestling over said cereal. But he doesn’t care, because it’s three am and he’s allowed to be moody and brooding at three-fucking-am when he’s just lost cereal. Max unlocks his phone and looks for the pizza delivery number he knows is in there, because even though it’s a ten minute walk home, the last thing he wants is to return empty-handed.

“You know,” Dorian says, walking out of the store, “there’s no reason to pout like a child.”

Max nearly drops his phone as he looks up, sees Dorian holding his cereal like a trophy to his chest. “I believe there’s a fairly good reason standing in front of me,” Maxwell mutters.

The laugh Dorian lets loose is glorious and loud, echoing through the empty gas station. “You know, if you’re that upset about it, I can share.”

His immediate response is _No, it’s fine, I’m ordering pizza and I’m still kind of messed up over the fact you kissed me so you could win an arm-wrestling match over cereal._

But instead, his traitor mouth speaks for him. “Yeah, sure.”

Dorian looks distantly surprised and put-aback, and Max immediately withdraws. “Oh, I’m sorry, that was a joke - I didn’t know, it’s fine, I’m ordering pizza right now anyways-”

“No!” Dorian says, reaching for him, nearly dropping his cereal. “No, it’s just, I realized I kind of walked here, and it’s a long walk, so-”

“I live close by,” Maxwell finds himself saying.

Dorian offers him his hand. “How far?”

“Seven minutes,” Maxwell says, taking his hand, and _fuck it, he’s hot and I want cereal, and if it’s going to be the two of us eating cereal in my dirty apartment, I don’t care._

“Let’s go,” Dorian says, and Maxwell stands up.

“Honestly?”

“I really don’t want to walk home,” admits Dorian, and Maxwell will take that any day.

“Completely understandable,” Maxwell says, and tries not to stare at Dorian as he licks his lips.

They start walking, Maxwell patting the gnome before they go. Dorian watches him with a sort of befuddled amusement, mouth quirked. “Friend of yours?” he finally says, after they’ve walked out of the gas station.

Maxwell shrugs, too tired to be embarrassed. “I guess.”

When they near his apartment, Maxwell turns to him, and Dorian looks at him in return. “You’re not a murderer, right? Because if you are I think I might have a problem with your life choices.”

It sounded better in his head, he admits silently. He just sounds dumb, and childish, with a hint of petulance that makes no sense in the context. But Dorian just laughs, again, that full and loud laugh that sounds out of place at three in the morning.

“I’m not,” he assures Max. “Honestly, I just don’t want to walk home.”

“If you are a murderer,” Max says surreptitiously, pitching his voice into a fake-whisper, “then at least you’re a nice one.” He turns, and Dorian nearly trips trying to follow. “Then again, you did kiss me so you could win at arm-wrestling.”

“That’s not the _only_ reason,” drawls Dorian, and Maxwell stops in the middle of the street. Dorian walks into him, and they stumble forward, the only reason they’re not falling being Maxwell’s ungodly amount of muscle. The full weight of Dorian’s body collapses onto him, and Max has to turn to catch him from falling to the pavement.

“We just met,” Max says, and _yeah, duh, you fucking idiot, we did, and then we kissed over a convenience store counter._

“Well, excuse me for finding someone attractive,” Dorian says, and thank God that they’re at his apartment, so he doesn’t have to look at him anymore.

“That doesn’t mean you arm-wrestle them for cereal,” Maxwell mutters, and then they’re inside.

 

* * *

 

 

“You don’t have to give me your couch,” Dorian complains, but Max shakes his head and points at the thing again.

“You look like you’re about to pass out,” Max says, and that’s that. Dorian trudges off to presumably grumble in the corner, and Max cannot believe he's doing this, it's ridiculous and stupid and he's had the mantra of _never talk to strangers_ drilled into his head since he was practically out of the womb, but his parents never specifically outlined the rules of offering a stranger your couch, so he supposes it's technically alright.

Technically.

(As in, Max is tired and it's now four in the morning and all he wants is to sleep, and this hot stranger should just shut up and take the fucking couch.)

Dorian curls up on the cushions, accepting the blankets Max offers him. He slips off to his own room, trying very hard not to think about how ridiculous his life has become, and falls asleep with his clothes on.

 

* * *

 

His alarm wakes him up at nine.

His first class is at ten, and it's only a ten minute walk, so he could sleep in if he wanted to, but he knows better, because that extra half-an-hour can very easily transfer into three more hours. Rolling out of bed - literally rolling onto the floor and landing with a thump - Max stands up and trudges out into his tiny living room. Dorian, Mister Hot Stranger, is still asleep, mouth cracked open, snoring lightly.

An awkward silence settles over Max. Is he supposed to wake him up? Make him breakfast? All he has is those pickles, and they ate a lot of the stupid cereal last night. Plus, there's no milk left, so it would have to be dry and Max loathes dry cereal.

The doorbell rings, and Max's first question is answered for him.

Dorian startles himself awake, limbs flailing and kicking off blankets. Max watches him, eyes wide.

Their eyes meet. “Good morning, did you sleep well?” He pauses awkwardly. “The door just rang, so that might've been what woke you up. Probably was,” Max stutters, blushing slightly. Loud knocks stop any more word vomit from pouring out, and he opens the door to see Sera's fist raised for another knock. She swings anyways, punching him in the head.

“Hey, titface,” she says, pushing past him. She then proceeds to scream and punch him again, in the arm, and _ow, dammit,_ yelling, “You've got a man in here! Holy shit! Did you fuck him? Maxie, I'm so proud!”

Sera envelops him in a hug. Max, who is facing a vaguely amused Dorian, mouths apologies, gingerly hugging Sera back. “I didn't,” he manages to choke out, “but hello anyways.”

She pulls back. "Then why is he here?" She turns around and walks over to Dorian, circles the couch, prodding at his tangled sheets. Dorian's expression goes from vaguely amused to downright laughter. “Who are you?”

“This is Sera,” Maxwell says, sighing. “We've been friends since middle school.”

“Yeah, when Maxie here was a pimpled mess,” she snorts, poking Dorian's foot, which twitches in response. “But, y'know. Queers against the world and all that, yeah?”

“Indeed,” Dorian says, stifling his laughter. He sits up, offering Sera his hand. “Dorian.”

Sera thrusts her hand into their grip and shakes wildly. “Sera. Blah blah blah, nice to meet you, the weather is fine today, innit?”

Dorian flicks his eyes to Max, who shrugs.

“A pleasure to meet you, too,” he says, but he's looking straight at Max.

 

* * *

 

Something true: Dorian and Maxwell become fast friends after their fateful encounter. Shared hobbies, mutual interests, and a similar sense of humour let them mesh together as if they've been friends since childhood. Sera doesn't complain that much, because she's too busy fake-throwing up in Maxwell's garbage can. Or any garbage can, for that matter.

The rest of Max's friends, namely Cole, Thom, and Bull ( _don't ask about the name, Dorian, just accept it_ ) are proud of him for meeting someone ( _they’re not dating, Bull, shut up, please_ ), and gladly take Dorian into their social circle.

 

* * *

 

Something else that is true: Maxwell slowly but surely starts to fall for the guy, mustache, emotional baggage, and all. He's got problems with his sexuality, his father, his family, his status. Dorian is rich, which seems to bother him, and why he was hesitant to bring Max to his place, because he's striking out on his own and doesn't have much, now that he's been cut off.

Max doesn't care about wealth. He's at a rich college, in a rich city, in an apartment full of rich kids who got in with their parents' money. He's rich, too, so he supposes he fits right in. His dad got into oil at the right time, and his mom grew up thrifty, knowing all the tricks to save money. Together, his parents made their name, raised their influential family. Don't get him wrong, it's not like they're _Kardashian_ -esque, but they are wealthy enough to own two luxury cars and a pool in the backyard. But honestly, it's college: the professors don't give five shits on a February Sunday about who has money or not.

Max understands Dorian's independence, and that's enough for both of them.

 

* * *

 

Something that is not true: Maxwell knows how to hide his emotions.

_Problem, thy name is Dorian Pavus._

Why Max's face likes to get so red around Dorian, he'll probably never know, but it's hard to convince someone you're getting red from your allergy to grass in the middle of winter, when the grass is as dead as your romantic life.

Trust him. He _knows_ these things.

 

* * *

 

Another true thing: Max's family is utter shit at keeping secrets.

Specifically, _his_ secrets.

His younger sister, Evelyn, slams her way into a retro diner where Max is chomping his way through a cheeseburger (not because he's eating his feelings or anything ridiculous like that. No. He's hungry, dammit) and slides in beside Dorian on the opposite side of the table. To his right, Sera snickers, biting down on a large fry with all the delight of a tickled baby.

It's disgusting, really.

“You must be Dorian,” Evelyn says, offering her hand for Dorian to shake, which he does, because he is so polite to strangers, excluding Max. “Max told me so much about you! Arm-wrestling over cereal! Who does that?”

“College students,” Max answers quickly, because Evelyn is prone to rambling. But mission failed, she continues anyways.

“He even told me about your mustache, and how you slept on his couch when you met, and that you snored really lightly,” she says eagerly, leaning forward. Dorian leans back, quirks an eyebrow at Max.

“Really?”

She nods, pulls back. ”I've heard quite a bit about it, actually. Like how when you speak your mustache twitches and Max gets distracted by your skin and-”

“How's Cullen?” Max interrupts, scrambling. Sera chokes on her fry, and Max pounds his fist against her back, a bit harsher than necessary.

_Regret._

That's what he's feeling.

Buckets upon buckets of pure regret.

But Evelyn does pause at his interruption and takes a sip of his milkshake. Max grabs it and holds it protectively to his chest, but it's safe, she's got that dreamy look in her eyes. Cullen is her boyfriend of one year - after two years of mutual pining, he finally stepped up his game, and asked her out. They are, he is told, the cutest couple at their high school.

Cullen plays football, Evelyn plays volleyball, and they're the star players of their respective teams. He is _told_ (because despite their faults they still tell each other everything) quite frequently, however, that she kicks his ass on a regular basis in class and out of it.

They are, without a doubt, stereotypically perfect for one another.

It makes something in his mouth taste off, but he tries not to mention it.

As Evelyn trips and stumbles over her affection, Dorian meets his gaze and smiles, the one that says, _we're in this together_.

Maxwell fucking _loves_ that smile.

 

* * *

 

One last true thing, for now, at least: Max really, really wants to kiss Dorian again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the gnome is a real thing!!!!! when i go on roadtrips for soccer there's a gas station we always pass on the way there and back with a huge gnome in the parking lot. mind you, it's a gas station with a small burger restaurant attached off it on a highway in the middle of nowhere in canada to boot, but the premise is the same
> 
> right????


	2. of sporting games and cellular devices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is kinda a filler chapter, but, also, as well, alternately: an excuse for cute cute cute cute cute fluff b/c i'm weak and we all know it

It's a Friday night when Dorian calls Max.

“Hello?” Max's voice over the phone, Dorian has learned, sounds like he just woke up from sleeping after some fantastic sex. He adores it, and therefore makes a point of calling him. A lot.

“Max.”

“Dorian.”

“Do you want to watch a high-school football game together?”

Maxwell hums thoughtfully through the static. “Are you asking me out?”

Dorian sputters, and if he were there in front of Max, he's sure he would be blushing fiercely. “Well - _technically_ , yes, but-”

“Dorian?”

“Hm?”

“I'd love to.”

An awkward pause, heavy with mutual relief. “Your sister will probably be there. It's her school, I think.”

Max laughs, drifting past the crackle of bad cell service. “Even better. Meet you at the stadium at eight?”

Dorian coughs. “Sounds amazing.” Then he hangs up, and has a hard time trying to stop himself from grinning.

 

* * *

 

They get seats far up and behind Evelyn and her friends, Max throwing popcorn into her hair periodically and hiding his grin behind his scarf when she whips around, eyes alight with anger. Dorian is beside himself with laughter, snorting hilariously, trying to stifle his giggling. But he fails, and only manages to really laugh when the home team gets a touchdown and the crowd roars. He curls into Max's side, harsh laughter brushing across chilled skin, and Max puts an arm around him, patting his back as he tries to regulate his breathing.

“There, there,” he coos, which only makes Dorian laugh harder.

“Her - face-” he chokes out, doubling over, head between his knees.

“It really is tragic,” he agrees, and dodges the weak slap Dorian aims at him.

“Ass,” protests Dorian, sitting up, smiling. “That's your sister.”

“Exactly,” he explains, tapping Dorian's knee. “That's why I'm allowed to say it.”

On the field, the whistle is blown, once, twice, and the two teams peel off to their respective changerooms. Evelyn stands up, flanked by her friends, and yells Cullen's name. The man in question looks up and waves, rips off his helmet, grin visible even from distance. Dorian nudges him as Evelyn skips down to the bottom of the stands to lean over the railing and kiss him soundly. The crowd cheers again, catcalling and whistling. Dorian rolls his eyes, but it's like every cheesy movie ever, so he can't help but grin.

“That's my flesh and blood,” Max seemingly can't help but point out. Dorian laughs.

“I can't see you ever being so... affectionate,” Dorian says. Max tilts his head at him and smiles, poking him in the ribs. Dorian shifts, huffing. _Oh no you don’t._

“With the right person,” he murmurs, voice low, “I can.”

Dorian flushes and leans against him. Max puts his arm across his shoulders, and watches his sister bound back to her seat.

“You know, I can too.” It’s hard to admit, but it’s there, and he can’t take it back.

Max grins and buries his smile in Dorian's hair, his breath ghosting down Dorian’s neck. “So why did you invite me to a high school football game, again?”

Dorian sniffs. “Evidently so you can drape _your_ self over _my_ glorious self.”

Max laughs, pulling away. “Fine, fine, have it your way. I’ll just go get us some more popcorn then-”

“Since you threw it all at your sister, yes,” Dorian mutters, but he’s smiling as Max walks away.

Evelyn notices her brother when he shakes the empty popcorn bag at her, and her immediate reaction seems to be _hit_ because she launches herself at him and hug-tackles him, punching him as she does so. Her friends barely even notice, too caught up in their - Dorian squints, laughs - game of rock-papers-scissors to react.

Or, at least he thought so.

The clear winner of the game smiles and stands up, makes her way over towards Max. Dorian watches as she rakes him over, once, twice, grins and offers her hand, letting Evelyn introduce them. Max, ever the boundless charmer, smiles back and shakes her hand fiercely, chattering on about something or other. After a minute or so, Evelyn glances up at Dorian, who looks away quickly, but then Max is calling his name and he’s standing up and making his way down, too.

_Dammit, Dorian. Why are you so weak?_

“- and this is Dorian,” Max is saying, gesticulating as he does when he gets too excited. “We’re in uni together.”

“Charmed,” Dorian says, saunters up, flashes the girl a quick grin. She giggles, nudges Evelyn with her elbow. Evelyn raises her eyebrow and laughs, too, giving Max a knowing look before dragging her friend back to their seats.

Dorian turns to Max, tilting his head towards Evelyn's friends. Max glances at them once and shrugs, then takes Dorian's hand and drags him off. His palm is warm against his own, and Dorian can't really find it within himself to complain.

The game ends without much preamble: the home team wins, Max's sister gets picked up by her boyfriend - to the deafening cheer of the crowd - and Max doesn't stop talking about how much he hated high school. Dorian always had a private tutor, tucked away in his mansion back home, so he can't relate much, but he can listen, so he does, devouring every snippet of information Max doles out in his generous heaps. When he talks, he gets easily distracted, one minute telling a story about jocks in his physics class and the next, he's explaining how the basic laws of the boys' change room works. Dorian supposes that they must be connected somehow, that these two inane things actually have everything to do with one another, but he didn't go to public school, so he wouldn't know, and therefore struggles to comprehend why Max is talking about lockers.

He doesn't let it show, though, hiding it behind a smokescreen of questions and smiles, laughing when Max's stories get far too ridiculous for anyone to believe, ever.

But Max draws the line at drugs, he says. Dorian approves, because one too many rebellious parties as a lesser youth easily remind him of the problems of lyrium, that oh-so-addicting hallucinogenic drug. Max goes on to explain how it's becoming a huge problem and how worried he is for everyone who takes it, solidifying Dorian's fears that, yes, he _has_ probably met his soulmate, which probably doesn't matter, because he kissed him already and Max doesn't even think of Dorian like that.

So when Max invites Dorian over for dinner the next night, he declines, claiming a previous engagement. The dismayed expression on Max's face only lasts a moment before flitting away to be replaced by a smile and a quick comforting pat, making Dorian one hundred percent certain that he was only imagining things, per usual.

“That's fine,” Max says, leading Dorian out of the stadium, his hand a steady anchor on the small of his back. “Just tell me when you're free, then?”

Dorian nods, words like molasses at the base of his throat, trying to drudge up the barest syllable. “Of course.”

Max drops his hand, pointing to a speck in the distance, a car in a sea of cars. “You remember how I bought a car? I'm parked over there. I'll give you a ride.”

Dorian learned long ago to stop protesting Max's unending generosity, so he simply bites his tongue and follows him through the maze of vehicles.

 

* * *

 

It's Sunday when his father calls him.

Dorian stares at his phone, heart pounding in his ears, hand starting to shake despite his tight grip on his coffee cup. Max had dropped off the drink, saying he could only stay for a couple of minutes before he had to be off again. Dorian had tried hard not to beg him to stay, sitting on his hands, only standing to give him a quick hug before Max was gone, out the door; the only thing left behind the steaming double-double in his hands. Just how he likes it.

His phone vibrates, rings, glares at him. Dorian hesitates only a second more before picking up. “Hello?”

“Dorian.”

He winces. “Father.”

“I heard that you did... well on your midterm.”

Dorian actually got 95.6%, which, in college, is practically a miracle, and Dorian still is surprised balloons didn't fall from the  ceiling when he got his mark. Further proof Dorian is superhuman. “Yes, I did.”

Silence. “I called to say congratulations.”

“Ah,” Dorian says, surprised. He’d been expecting a lecture, a _why didn’t you get 100% while you’re at it? You have a family legacy to uphold._

_You are no son of mine-_

His father laughs softly on the other end of the line. “I can hear you thinking.”

“Thank you, father,” Dorian says, proud of how his voice doesn’t quake. Alexius had told him that his father was trying to come to terms with his sexuality. They haven’t spoken in nearly six months, so this is, after all, a Big Deal. A phone call on a Sunday night, heavy with words unsaid and words shouted, too long ago, steeped in memory and hatred. Dorian bites back the unexpected bitterness.

“How… how are you enjoying your school?”

“School is good.”

“Good.”

“I met someone,” Dorian blurts out suddenly, and he can’t take it back once it’s out. He just sits there, feeling his limbs turn numb, one by one. First his hands, then his arms, then his legs start to quiver. The only thing keeping him grounded is the coffee, steaming happily in his hands. “We’re not dating, but...”

_But, but, but, but..._

“I’m happy for you,” Halward Pavus says, slowly and quietly. “He is nice, then?”

“Very,” Dorian says, reflecting on what his life has come to. “I-”

“I’m happy for you,” Dorian’s father repeats.

“Thank you,” Dorian whispers. “I hope you’re happy, too.”

“I’d be happier if my son was home,” he says, and Dorian knows how much that must’ve cost him to say. “But if he is happy, then I am, too.”

“Tell mother I love her, and send Felix and Alexius my best,” he says, keeping his breathing steady.

“I will. And Dorian-”

“Yes?”

“I’m proud of you.”

The dial tone replaces his father’s voice, and Dorian ends the call.

 

* * *

 

Dorian tells Max about the call the next day when they meet up for bagels and coffee.

Max chews on his bite, thoughtfully, then swallows and hugs Dorian. He takes a step backwards and steadies himself against the counter, coffee sloshing in his styrofoam cup. It tilts over the edge and burns his hand slightly, but Dorian doesn’t mind.

“I’m happy for you,” Max says, voice partially muffled due to the food in his throat. “Maybe you’re dad isn’t a walking dick after all.

“Thank you,” Dorian chokes out. “It’s a start.”

Max nods viciously, head bopping into Dorian’s. _Why is he so much taller than I am?_ Dorian thinks, but it’s a fleeting thought.

“It’s a start, alright.”

 

* * *

 

Cole, Dorian learns, can read people extremely well.

Extremely.

“You should stop worrying about your family’s expectations,” Cole says, out of the blue one day, whilst they’re watching Max’s soccer game, “and start worrying more about your own.”

Dorian is slack-jawed. “What are you on about-”

“Don’t mind the kid,” rumbles Bull ( _Max, that is not a name, you cannot name yourself after an animal. That would be like me calling myself Lion. Yes, you laugh now, but imagine it, and then you’ll feel what I’m feeling_ ), punching Dorian lightly on the shoulder. “He’s a psych major. They’re all wacked-out.”

“Ah,” Dorian says, dry, “thank you for enlightening me.”

“Anytime,” Bull says, and winks. Thom, beside him, elbows him in the ribs, but Bull is so freaking huge that Dorian doubts he felt it at all.

“So what sports do you play?”

Dorian tries very hard to keep conversation flowing. A childhood of awkward silences has made him a very, very talkative person.

“Thom here does hockey,” Bull says, “and his team jersey is black, and he never gets knocked down, so we call him Blackwall 'cause of it.” Thom says nothing; just snorts. “I play football, and Cole here - well, Cole is the kid.”

“I am not a kid,” Cole says, defensive, paying attention for once. “You just call me that because-”

“Not now, kid,” Thom mutters, and Bull laughs.

“You play?” Bull asks, gesturing towards the game. Dorian shakes his head, no. On the field, Max neatly traps the ball with his chest and lets it drop to the ground, then dribbles forward, feet a blur as he pushes past defenders. He's in the eighteen, then the six-yard box, and the ball's in the back of the net. The crowd stands up and cheers, clapping and yelling in celebration. The scoreboard flashes _GOAL BY NUMBER FOURTEEN_ and pans to Max's face, which is turned towards where they're all sitting. Dorian cheers a little bit louder and Max grins, raising his fist in victory as his teammates tackle him.

Seconds flicker by and the game ends to a stampede of applause. Max's goal had been the winning one, and his team carries him off the field. The crowd picks up a chant of _we are the champions_ and Dorian, again, feels as if he's missed something until Cole whispers, “They're heading to the finals because they won today.”

“Thank you,” Dorian whispers back, and watches with a worm of envy furling in his stomach as Max disappears into the changerooms.

Their motley group descends down the stadium steps, Bull laughing about something with Cole, leaving Thom next to Dorian. “You from up north?”

“Am I that easy to read?” Dorian asks, and the burly man shakes his head.

“You have the accent for it,” Thom says, grinning slightly as they wait for Max. “It's easy enough to hear if you listen.”

“The south is very cold,” Dorian informs him, shivering as he speaks. “I don't know how you all manage to function properly.”

“Well,” Thom says, “we try our best.”

“That seems to be a sound approach,” Dorian says. “Ah, there's our hero.”

Max grins, sweaty and muddy, dirt and grass stained in his socks and shorts. He's still as attractive as ever, Dorian notes, sour, trying to ignore the flexing of Max's arms as he clasps hands with Bull in a congratulatory handshake. Cole pops up and fixes a smudge of dirt on Max's face before patting him on the back and disappearing again. Dorian waits patiently as Max's friends - _their_ friends, he reminds himself - take off, leaving them alone in the parking lot.

“Thank you for coming,” Max says, walking them over to his car. He drops his gear in the back and opens the door for Dorian, who tries very hard to keep himself from blushing. It's the cold, he thinks. “I know you're not into sports all that much.”

“Anything for you,” Dorian teases, and Max's smile is like home and happiness settling under skin.

 

* * *

 

“Why are you calling me at midnight?” Dorian asks, blinking sleep out of his eyes. “I actually managed to get to bed before eleven tonight. That's practically a miracle and you know it.”

“Emergency,” Max says, “get dressed. I'll be by in ten.”

Dorian sputters at his cryptic reply. “More information, please,” he says, getting up and doing as he says anyways.

“I want fast food and I don't want to get it alone,” Max whines, “and you love me so you'll come with me. I'm buying.”

Dorian moans, shrugging on a jacket. “I hate you.”

“Nine,” Max says, and hangs up.

 

* * *

 

 

Dorian gets a text two minutes later.

 

(Received at 12:18 am)

_seven minutes !!!!!_

 

“Agh,” Dorian says, and combs his hair.

 

* * *

 

 

(Received at 12:22 am)

_three minutes. i hope ur ready_

 

(Sent at 12:22 am)

_Hold on, you impatient ass!_

 

(Received at 12:23 am)

_two!!!! what im doing rn is illegal btw i hope ur happy_

 

(Sent at 12:24 am)

_Then stop texting me and focus on driving._

 

(Received at 12:24 am)

_fine :(_

 

(Received at 12:26 am)

_i'm outside. let's goooo already slowpoke_

 

* * *

 

(Received at 1:48 am)

_did u enjoy ur meal?_

 

(Sent at 1:48 am)

_Somehow, I pictured our first date to be a bit more romantic._

 

(Received at 1:49 am)

_if it's a date ur asking 4 i can blow ur MIND_

 

(Sent at 1:49 am)

_I'm not asking for anything, good sir._

 

(Received at 1:50 am)

_ofc ur not i wouldnt dare presume_

 

(Sent at 1:51 am)

_Just you try me._

 

(Received at 1:52 am)

_oh?? ur on. friday @ eight. b ready_

 

(Sent at 1:53 am)

_What are you on about now?_

 

(Received at 1:53 am)

_friday. eight. dress nice_

 

(Sent at 1:53 am)

_Are you asking me out on a date?_

 

(Received at 1:54 am)

_i dont know if this can b classified as 'asking' anymore_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm kind of screaming internally because the response to this has been so positive and some authors on here whose fics i have read and adored and made grabby-hands at from afar actually gave me kudos so pretty much i'm a mess and i love u all


	3. of coffee shops and (not-so) terrible advice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was a piece of poo to get through, but it's here, it's done, and we have more cameos from various dragon age games. expect more of those. expect.... a lot more.

Max, in truth, has next to no idea what to do for his date with Dorian.

His date with Dorian.

He feels like he's going to puke.

“You’ll be fine,” Cole says, clapping his shoulder not-very-helpfully. “Dorian likes you, too.”

“Of course he does,” Max scoffs, but it’s a weak scoff at best. “I just-”

“Ask Varric,” Thom says, “he knows everything.”

“Everything,” Sera repeats, wiggling her eyebrows.

“Don’t be gross, Sera,” Thom interrupts, smacking her on the head. Sera frowns.

“He does,” she insists. “Just text him, Maxie.”

“No,” says Cole. “In person.”

“Varric is always with his group,” Max complains, thinking of Hawke and his infamous circle of friends. “They scare me.”

“You’re Maxwell Trevelyan,” Thom says. “You can do this. You can do anything.”

“But Hawke,” he starts.

“No cuts, no buts, no coconuts,” Cole chirps. Then he frowns, and Thom pats his head.

“Good try, kid.”

“ _Augh_ ,” Max says emphatically.

 

* * *

 

Max finds Varric in Hawke's café, sipping on a cup of coffee and typing away at his laptop. Hawke throws him a quick grin and Max flashes one back, only slightly awed by the charisma that is practically radiating off the guy. Max settles down in the chair opposite Varric and watches Hawke charm his way through the entire line of customers in a few words, then sighs. Varric glances up at him and snorts.

“I thought I'd find you here,” Max says, grinning.

“I can't say I'm hard to find,” he replies, closing his laptop. “If it isn't Hercules himself. How can I help?”

Max scratches the back of head. “It's about Dorian.”

Varric snorts again, louder this time, and Hawke looks up from the counter and grins. “Sparkler, huh? What about him?”

 _Here goes nothing._ “I'm going on a date with him Friday, but I have no ideas. I told him to dress nice so it did sound like I knew what I was doing, but I don't. Not even one smidgen.”

Varric makes a sympathetic noise. “Not even a smidgen?”

Max shakes his head. Varric rolls back his shoulders and steeples his fingers, leaning forward. “Well, Herc,” he says, and Max relaxes at the sound of the too-familiar nickname. “He wants to be wooed, I can tell you that much.”

Max lets loose a frustrated sound. “I know that. I need ideas.”

“I'll ask Hawke,” Varric says, and before Max can stop him he's called out for the man and the Champion is making his way over, letting a sweet looking girl take over his place at the counter.

“Thank you, Merrill,” Hawke says, and stands next to Varric. “Yeah?”

“Max is having boy problems,” Varric says, voice a bit too smug. “I thought you could help.”

Hawke laughs. “And you thought I could help, why? Because of Anders?”

Varric says nothing. Hawke sighs. Max looks anywhere but the man standing in front of him, flour in his beard.

“You don't have to-” Max starts, but he's cut off by Hawke raising a hand.

“No, no, it's just, you'd do so much better talking to _him_ about this kind of thing,” Hawke explains, but it doesn't help clear Max's confusion at all. Hawke checks his watch and smiles. “He'll be here in thirty, if you can wait.” And with that, Hawke darts back behind the counter.

Max splutters. “What? Who? What now?”

“Hawke is going to make Anders talk to you, so he doesn't have to explain all the embarrassing, shitty mistakes he made when they first started dating.” Varric pauses. “Basically, he's being an ass.”

“Ah,” Max says. “Thirty minutes, then. Got any good stories?”

Varric grins. “You know I do, Herc.”

The minutes pass quickly after that, Merrill coming over occasionally to refill Varric's cup and offer baked goods of varying european countries, from danishes to croissants to authentic Russian Easter bread. “It's really good!” she insists, and Max accepts only if because she's so eager. Then the door opens; the late-evening flow of customers died down ten minutes ago, and it's just Varric, Max, Hawke, and Merrill filling the silence.

Hawke stops talking immediately and walks over to the door, embracing the man who'd just entered. Merrill, beside Max, beams, and Max belatedly realizes that this must be Anders, Hawke's fiancé.

Max watches them for a moment: the tight grip of Hawke's arms around the other man, the peaceful expression that slowly slides onto Anders' face, the sense of belonging and warmth emanating off of them that makes Max's heart ache. They separate, Hawke pressing a kiss to Anders' mouth before brushing the flour off his scrubs, laughing the whole while. Now that he can properly see his face, Max notices that Anders, beneath his tired, weary veneer, is as attractive as Hawke, and they contrast each other like day and night. Anders pulls Hawke back for another kiss, and then Hawke drags him over to where Max and Varric have been quietly sitting, both slightly awed by the couples' intimate presence.

“This is Max,” Hawke says, “I've mentioned him before.”

“The soccer player whom Varric nearly ran over,” Anders said, his smile brilliant. “Yes, I remember you. It's good to put a face to the name.”

“That's me,” Max says. “Hercules.”

“Oh, right!” Anders says, and Hawke just stares at Anders like he's the sun while he laughs. Max wonders if that's just what happens when you fall in love with someone; do you become blind to their flaws, or do you love them all the more because of them? Dorian, Max thinks, has no flaws, save that he's prickly in the morning and is incredibly vain and hot-tempered and does not like _anyone_ touching his moustache, and the list could go on for ages, but none of those things bother Max in the slightest.

 _Shit_ , he thinks.

“Varric was very surprised when you didn't even move an inch,” Anders adds. “His car is overcompensating for his small stature, you know.”

“I take offense to that, Blondie,” rumbles Varric, but it's affectionate, like they're brothers. “I'll have you know my car is a collector's edition-”

Anders yawns loudly, and tugs Hawke away back towards the counter. Merrill giggles. “Want to make a me toasted panini, love?”

“You only love me because of my cooking skills,” Hawke teases, and Anders suddenly holds a hand to his chest and gapes at his fiancé.

“What is this, an assault?” he exclaims. “You wounded me! Look at all this blood!”

“Go give the demigod love advice,” Hawke shoots right back. “Or so help me, I'll pour hot coffee on your lap.”

Anders holds up his hands in defeat and collapses in a chair at the table. He greets Merrill warmly, and leans forward to rest his head in his palms. “So. Love advice. Why you want it from me, I can't say.”

“I actually asked Thom, who told me to ask Varric,” Max says, “and then Varric asked Hawke, and then he told me to talk to you, and here we are.”

“Here we are,” Anders echoes. “The first date Hawke took me on was to the beach.”

Max waits, then says, “And?”

Anders looks surprised, and blushes. “Sorry, I was just - remembering. Hawke packed us a picnic and everything, planned it all - and then halfway through, we got caught in the worst thunderstorm of the year.” Anders laughs. “I still remember that he yelled at the sky for ruining our date.”

Max can't help but smile, running his finger around the rim of his coffee cup. “So what you're saying is, don't do a picnic?”

“Don't be afraid to be yourself,” Anders says, soft, smiling as Hawke chatters away at a customer, hands moving wildly. Varric drifts away, followed by Merrill, as they converge around the man. Anders has a dopey look on his face, lines softened from affection and something even more tender. “Listen, Max. Herc. Whatever. I can't pinpoint the exact moment I fell in love with Hawke, and he couldn't tell you, either. It comes naturally when you're with the right person. You're not suddenly made whole - because not having someone doesn't inherently make you empty - but you're stronger. Life gets brighter, but there are still fights and bad days and even worse nights. So, what I'm saying is, do what feels right.” Anders rests his head in one palm, lazily flicking a packet of sugar dexterously in between his fingers. “You'll know.”

Max hums softly, mulling his words over. They sound right, and though not exactly what he was looking for when he came to the café, they _are_ helpful. “Thank you,” he says, “you didn't have to do this.”

Anders waves his hand flippantly. “If you want, I can tell you all the embarrassing things Hawke did in an attempt to win my affection.”

“Or not,” Hawke yells, from his position at the counter. The customer quirks his mouth slightly and inclines his head at Anders, silver hair gleaming underneath his beanie. Anders nods back. “People don't need to know how awkwardly I seduced you.”

“It was endearing,” Anders retorts. “I like watching you fumble. It was good to know even the Champion trips over his own tongue when it comes to romance. You're not as smooth as everyone thinks you are.”

“I'm making you a _god damn_ panini, Anders,” Hawke says, “I am going to spit in this.”

“You just ruined the surprise,” Anders says, and Hawke growls.

 

* * *

 

That night, Max tumbles his way into his apartment, after sticking around for some Wicked Grace with Hawke's circle of friends. In the course of one night Max learned that Fenris has the best poker face in the game, Isabela has fantastic stories, Merrill can't hold her liquor, and Hawke and Anders now expect Max and Dorian and Max's friends to appear at their wedding. Plus his head only slightly aches and he can semi-walk in a straight line, so he counts the night as a win. He's never been more glad that he took a bus there and cabbed home, because there is no way he was going to drive home _drunk_.

His kitchen, no longer devoid of milk or cereal, beckons him. Max opens the fridge and grips the carton, stares at it, and sits on his kitchen floor.

“Shit,” he says, “I still don’t have any ideas.”

The milk carton seems to judge him, and he moans.

 

* * *

 

Max crawls his way through traffic and blows air out of his mouth, fogging up his windshield. He immediately regrets doing that, and sighs, blocking his view even more than before. A sense of regret settles over him as the light turns red and he stops crawling to idle in the midst of downtown traffic.

A car heading in the other direction speeds past him, shaking his car ever so slightly. Tapping his fingers against the wheel, Max pulls out his phone and checks the weather for Friday.

Sunny.

_Okay, that's good. Sunny is good._

A car honks in front of him, as the lights turn green and the slow trudge of cars inches forward.

_What can we do outside?_

He glances out the window, watches the flow of traffic. Despite the rain earlier in the day, shadows don't linger in the overhangings of buildings, and the sun has dared to show its face from behind the grey clouds.

_A walk isn't enough. Neither is a movie. Dinner outside, maybe?_

Max pulls off Main Street and into an obscure neighborhood that he recently found out is a great shortcut home. Green lawns, flecked with picket fences and children's toys, pass by, an endless stream of the stereotypical suburban homes. Dotted here and there are the families themselves, walking dogs or pulling into driveways.

_An out of the way place, maybe. I'll tell him he doesn't have to dress fancy, just bring a big appetite. No, that would spoil it._

_But what type of food?_

He pulls into his parking spot and bangs his head against the steering wheel. He has five days.

_You are royally screwed, Maxwell Trevelyan._

Five days to come up with a semi-decent date idea. In theory, it doesn't sound too bad. In practice, however...

 

* * *

 

 

Max meets up with Dorian in the coffee shop on campus the next day, and buys his coffee with more trepidation than usual. They sit at their usual table and Max fidgets twice before slurping down his coffee.

Dorian watches him with the expression that means he knows exactly what's going on inside your head. Max is deathly afraid of that look, and puts down his styrofoam cup to strike up a decent conversation.

“Have you ever been to Hawke's café?”

Dorian looks amused. “No, I can't say that I have. Why?”

Max thumbs the lid of his cup. “I went there Saturday. They have good stuff.”

“Did you meet the Champion himself?” Dorian inquires, leaning forward to rest his chin on his palms. His breakfast scone steams softly beside him, clouding his face slightly. Max peers at Dorian, then sighs.

“He was very nice,” Max says, trying to hide the guilt underlying his tone. “I met all of his friends, actually. Played cards.”

Dorian, if possible, appears more delighted than before. “Really! Did you lose spectacularly, then?”

Max grumbles, “No.” He sighs, rubs his eyes. “Maybe. Yes. Apparently I'm easy to read.”

“I could've told you that,” Dorian points out, sipping on his coffee. “Well, if it's any consolation, I'm fantastic at Wicked Grace.”

“Of course you are,” Max teases, grinning. He looks out the window at the busy street and smiles, content. “It's a shame I've got class in half an hour. I'd love to go for a hike.”

Dorian sputters, coffee dripping from his lips. “It's raining! Why would you go for a hike?” His hands splattered with his hot drink.

“The mud is fun,” Max says, and Dorian moans.

“Savage,” he says, “I'm friends with a certifiable beast.”

Max bares his teeth, making Dorian laugh more as he attempts to clean up his own mess. Handing the poor man a napkin, Max sips his own drink, as pleased as punch. “You could go with me,” he says, nonchalant. “Y’know.”

Dorian eyes him suspiciously, wiping his cheek. “Is that what we're doing on Friday?”

Max shakes his head, thoroughly enjoying the disgust writ across Dorian's face. He savours it for another moment before leaning forward to say, “It's a surprise, Dorian.”

The other man groans and throws the dirty napkin at him. Max gives him a mock-glare and throws it back. Thus follows a flurry of flying napkins, until a barista coughs and they settle down, giggling uncontrollably.

Max opens his mouth to say something, but Dorian raises a finger at the buzzing of his phone and walks outside to take a call, the door clanging shut behind him.

Max can see him through the glass: the thin line of his mouth, the wrinkles on his forehead. It looks serious, and Max is hit with a small jolt of fear. When Dorian finally comes back in and sits down, Max has finished his first coffee and already ordered a second.

"What was that?" he asks softly, putting a hand on Dorian's shaking one.

"My friend may be very ill," is all Dorian says.

Max mulls this over, then nods once, coming to a decision. "May be very ill, you said."

Dorian blinks. “Yes.”

“Ah, yes,” Max says, “then he may be very healthy, as well.”

Dorian sighs, but he smiles despite himself. “Yes. That is true.”

“There you go! Always look on the bright side of life,” Max chirps, sounding more cheery than he is, standing and accepting his coffee from the barista. Dorian scoffs, but he doesn't look as pallid, and that's good enough for Max.

“That sounds terribly cliche,” Dorian says. “Terribly.”

“Oh, yes,” Max agrees. “That doesn't make it any less true. Things are cliche for a reason, you know.”

Dorian hums, and they sit in silence until Max has to leave for class. Coffee steam curls up into the air and disappears, leaving behind the faintest trace of heat.

 

* * *

 

Tuesday comes. Max flutters over the plans, finalizing details and balancing class work with the mental capacity of a goldfish, always forgetting this or being distracted by that. As if he, for a second, could focus on anything other than the fact that he’s going on a bloody _date_ with Dorian. As if he, for even a moment, could do any activity that wasn’t fretting over every single detail. Max never claimed to be a sane man.

Varric calls him once, asking him what Max plans to do. And when Max tells him, Varric whistles, cracks a couple of harmless jokes, and hangs up. Unsure exactly what that means, Max calls Sera, asking for her opinion.

Which, in hindsight, was a terrible idea, consisting of innuendos, fake puking, and Sera crackling paper in an attempt to convince Max her phone wasn’t getting enough reception.

So Max calls Bull.

Bull tries, Max can tell, very hard to be helpful; he even goes so far as to suggest himself scoping out the restaurant and threatening the waiters, but Max tells him to hold back. Friendly, he reminds himself, is good, and he wants this to be all very Friendly and Normal and Romantic, even though he’s never done anything like this before, and his stomach is liable to explode with all the butterflies flitting around in there.

He considers calling Evelyn, then turns off his phone and reads his notes.

After all, what good is anything if he can’t pass his classes?

And besides, knowing his little sister, she’d just blab to everyone - Cassandra, Bethany, Josephine, Leliana - and they’d blab to everyone, and then eventually it would wind its way down the grapevine until it reached Dorian. That, after all, is something Max most definitely does not want, and he tells himself this as he scribbles down facts on note card after note card. His hand cramps and he gets ink all over his desk, his fingers, and the textbook, but he finally finishes.

Three more days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long wait!!! life just knocked me out lately, and aou is tomorrow and i'm going with a boy and i'm trashhh so i figured i should probably get... th..is.... post....ed
> 
> if you're wondering about how da2 was transferred into a modern!au, read below.
> 
> hawke owns his own café, after making good investments with varric in africa, forging fair-trade agreements with his personable people skills and varric's quick wit. he met anders as a doctor offering his services free in the slums of their town in america, and brought him along to africa so he could help any ill or wounded they found. hawke and varric returned to america together with a formidable empire of wealth under their belts, only to be bombarded by american investors with mile long schemes to disrupt their business. hawke went head-to-head with a huge, huge company, Arishok Limited, best known for their expansive deals with countries across the globe, and won, after unearthing some rather nasty policies the company had and effectively ruining them and earning himself the title of Champion.  
> as of today, or when this fic takes place, hawke owns an array of chain stores, but keeps to himself in his café, letting his business partner Varric deal with all those nasty details and giving him a pretty big cut of the profit, to boot.  
> hawke is engaged to the highly sought-after medical doctor Anders, best known for his miraculous surgeries, and has a tight-knit circle of friends; Fenris, his quote-on-quote bodyguard who is actually his best friend; Merrill, a grad student who works in his café and he adores to bits; Isabela, the woman in charge of shipping and personal relations; Carver and Bethany, his younger siblings who are still in uni; Aveline, the fiery lawyer slash policewoman who practically ran his case for him and is pretty much his aunt; and Varric, his business partner and renowned novelist.
> 
> pretty much that coffee shop au i never got around to writing, but might, once this story is done.


	4. of twenty four hour clocks and multiple perspectives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> played around with the style again - sue me! (don't actually.)  
> each segment has a name - max or dorian - and the approximate time. read those. they will definitely help define what's happening.

Max - wednesday, approx. 12:20 hours

 

Max flies around his apartment, collecting papers and slamming his way out the door. Dorian blinks, closes the door shut behind him, locks the door, and follows him down the stairs.

“Are you ready?” Dorian asks, climbing into the passenger seat.

Max throws the papers to the floor of the car and turns the key in the ignition. “Not even close. I’m screwed. Royally. Ready to die.”

Dorian nods, and Max pulls out of the stall and drives.

 

Dorian - wednesday, approx. 18:50 hours

 

“Dorian?”

Dorian scrambles, drops his phone. “Max! I didn’t hear you there.”

“I’m sorry,” Max starts, but Dorian holds up his hand, and picks up his phone.

“It’s fine,” he says, smiling, “I’m glad to see you. How did it go?”

“I think the interview went well,” Max says, unsure. “It could’ve very easily gone the other way around, however.”

Dorian hums, walking over to close the door. Max sits down on Dorian’s couch and sighs, stretching out his ridiculous legs. Which, as he has noted before, are huge and not at all attractive due to their muscular mass. “I’m glad to hear it. I’m sure you did fantastically.”

Max picks up a throw pillow and inspects it, eyes narrowed into slits as he meticulously removes a hair. Dorian laughs. “Thank you,” he says, and Max beams. “That one, _singular_ hair has been bothering me for _months_.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” Max grins, closing his eyes. “I serve your every need.”

Mental images flood Dorian - none of them appropriate, all of them wild daydreams he’s had before - before he shakes his head minutely and sits down next to him. Sometimes, when he’s sitting in his room at night, and he’s empty and tired and his breaths feel just a mite too small, he wonders if Max knows just what he does to Dorian, then decides he never, ever wants his train of thought to drive down that track ever again.

Rejection hurts, especially when it comes from someone you love. Dorian knows this too well, and would not like a repeat performance - thank you very much, but that’ll be a no from him, today. A big _shout-out_ to his father for the experience, but it’s not one he appreciated all that much at the time. He doesn’t even truly appreciate it now, and it’s been five months and eighteen days.

Not that he’s counting, of course.

“Dorian?” whispers Max, and Dorian whips himself back into the presence, apologizing, jarred thoughts still sticking in that nasty place behind his eyes, beside his ears, at the base of his neck.

“It’s fine,” Max says, interrupting his pathetic apologies that never seem good enough, “you just went to that place again. I wanted to bring you back.”

Dorian swallows thickly, his throat dry and eyes watering. He stands up and walks into the kitchen, opening the fridge to pull out his carton of milk.

“Want some cereal?”

Max takes the change of subject in stride. “I’d _love_ some.”

 

Max - thursday, approx. 10:30 hours

 

“Are you ready for tomorrow?” Varric asks, sliding his coffee mug between his hands. It has the motif of a convertible painted onto the side; it matches the car outside, gleaming and silver, wood paneling and authentic parts shipped from halfway across the world.

Max takes a deep drink of his coffee, bites back the bitter tang of black coffee, wondering distantly why he didn’t bother to get cream or sugar, and says, once he’s done, “I think so. As ready as I’ll ever be, at the very least.”

“Does he know what you’re doing?”

“No.” And here is where Max works his lower lip, thinking. “I pick him up at seven. We go to the restaurant. We eat. Then we go to the skating rink, which is outside, located in a very romantic location, and we skate.”  
“After that?”

“If all goes well,” Max sighs, “he doesn’t hate me, and we stay friends despite my terrible, one-sided attraction to him.”

Varric pats his hand consolingly. “Nobody likes a pessimist, Herc.”  
“What about a realist?”

“What’s the difference, again?”

Max snorts, and Hawke smiles at him from behind the counter.

 

Dorian - thursday, approx. 13:00 hours

 

Dorian massages his forehead and checks his phone for the fifteenth time that hour, scrolling through old messages with a growing sense of dread.

 

**FELIX ALEXIUS**

 

(Received yesterday, at 10:43 pm)

_I get the results soon._

 

(Sent yesterday, at 10:44 pm)

_Text me as soon as you know._

 

(Sent at 8:00 am)

_Do you have them yet?_

 

(Sent at 9:32 am)

_Felix?_

 

(Sent at 12:28 pm)

_Reply ASAP. Starting to worry._

 

“Dammit, Felix,” Dorian whispers, and turns back to his textbook, head pounding.

 

Max - thursday, approx. 15:00 hours

 

Some idiot surprises Max by jumping out at him while he’s running. Instinctively, Max kicks out and yells on contact, arm cocked back for a punch.

But it’s Bull, wheezing on the side of the path, both laughing and groaning, clutching his stomach. “Max,” he whines, breaths coming short and heavy.

“Oh, God, Bull,” he says, leaning down to offer him a hand. Bull takes it, and Max grunts with the effort of pulling this ox of a man up to his feet. How he managed to knock him over in the first place is beyond him.

Physics, he supposes. The force of gravity, added to the applied force, and the resistance and the location of the force applied to the mass in relativity to -

“Good kick, Max,” wheezes Bull, hands on his knees, bent over. Max shakes the physics out of his head before offering his friend his water.

“Why did you attack me like that?”

“I thought it would be funny,” Bull explains, taking the water gratefully. “I mean, this is your normal route, I just thought-”

“Well you got winded because of it,” Max says crossly, “so that plan worked out swell.”

“Shut up,” Bull says, and then they walk, because that’s how things are between them.

 

Dorian - friday, approx. 6:00 hours

 

Dorian wakes up with a migraine, his vision blurred, phone blaring in his face. But there’s that feeling in his stomach, that knowledge that he’s going to puke, and he shoves the phone underneath his pillow and closes his eyes.

 

Max - friday, approx. 9:30 hours

 

Max tumbles out of bed, nerves on fire.

“Today’s the day,” he tells his reflection as he brushes his teeth. His reflection smiles back at him.

“I’m going on a date with Dorian today,” he reminds his fridge, opening the door to pour out orange juice with an uncharacteristic happiness. The juice spills onto the counter, but Max just laughs.

“Hopefully I don’t fuck everything up,” he says to his bagel, cutting it open carefully.

“It’ll be fine, Max,” he says, voice pitched low, making the two slices of his bagel reply to him before popping them into the toaster.

“Of course it will be, my bagel friend,” he replies, and hums a soft song to himself.

He pauses. “I’m talking to a _bagel_.”

 

Dorian - friday, approx. 13:00 hours

 

Dorian awakes again hours later, head no longer under construction, no more drills into his temple or hammers against his brain. He checks his phone, and swears.

 

_5 new messages from (FELIX ALEXIUS)_

 

He flicks open his phone and taps the messaging app, desperate, and reads.

 

**FELIX ALEXIUS**

 

(Received at 10:09 am)

_Dorian. Sorry I wasn’t replying. Bad news..._

 

(Received at 10:11 am)

_Doctor says I have lung cancer. He doesn’t know how it really got there yet - I don’t smoke, and you and I both know that - but it’s not good. Explains all that coughing and blood, though, doesn’t it? And it turns out that fitness program doesn’t make you lose weight like I thought. Just got to get cancer, I suppose._

 

(Received at 10:12 am)

_I shouldn’t even be on my phone right now, but I know I was worrying you by not replying. He says it’s not too late to start treating it. Dad’s not taking it too well._

 

(Received at 10:15 am)

_Got to get chemotherapy. Good thing I’ve never had much hair to begin with, right?_

 

(Received at 10:20 am)

_Dorian?_

 

Max - friday, approx. 14:00 hours

 

“T-minus five hours,” Max croons over the phone to Evelyn, who snorts.

“You’re such a nerd,” she says, but he ignores that.

“If all goes well,” he starts, then stops. What then? Does they just naturally progress to dating? Does Dorian like him like that? Is he expected to take him on more dates? Should he kiss him at the end of the night?

Evelyn prompts, “If all goes well?”

“If all goes well,” Max says, “I don’t die.”

“You’re being a big baby,” she says, more to herself than anything else.

“IF ALL GOES WELL,” he repeats, “I DON’T DIE.”

“I heard you the _first time_ , asshole,” she snipes, and Max can picture her expression as they speak. It mirrors the one his mother loved to wear when Max was being an obnoxious brat as a kid, colouring walls, painting doors, mixing juices together to make ‘the Ultimate Juice, _mom,_ jeez.’

“Just checking,” he murmurs, light, glancing at his clock. “Do I call to make sure they’ve still got the reservation?”

“Now you sound like a worrywort. No, Max. Don’t call. Please.”

“What did I sound like before?”

“An asshat.”

“Thanks, brat.”

“Anytime, jock.”

 

Dorian - friday, approx. 17:00 hours

 

The plane took off half an hour ago. So, if his math is right, and it may very easily be very wrong, Dorian has three and a half hours left before he lands, and then there’s the drive from the airport to the hospital, and then booking a hotel room, which will cost an exorbitant amount, but it will be worth it.

Oh, God, not Felix.

He’d thrown up, gone online, bought tickets for his flight, and started packing. Sure, he’s in economy with two kids surrounding him on either side and it smells distinctly of lysol, but he’s on his way home, and all he can think of is I’m going to see my dad and My best friend is dying and I’m not there for him.

Fear washes over him, and he can’t breathe, the woman next to him glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, hand twitching in her lap. Dorian stands and bolts to the bathroom, slamming closed the door and throwing up, again, but it’s just water, there’s nothing left in his stomach, he hasn’t eaten anything today, he had a migraine, and then Felix - and _then_ , and then Felix, and now - _Oh God, and now, now, now_ \- and now he’s on a plane and he’s never been more afraid.

He looks at his reflection - everything is askew, he didn’t comb his hair or his mustache or put on eyeliner, he just looks ragged, empty.

 _I’m going to puke again_ , he thinks.

And then he does.

 

Max - friday, approx. 19:00 hours

 

Dorian doesn’t answer his door, so Max finds the spare key and unlocks the door, calling out Dorian’s name as he does so.

Silence answers him. He tiptoes inside, opening doors, shutting them, peering into rooms. “Dorian?”

Nothing, again. He enters Dorian’s room and sees clothes strewn about, on the floor and the bed, and fear hits him dead on in the gut, and he thinks he knows just what Bull felt when Max kicked him in the stomach.

Max thinks that would feel a million times less painful than what he's feeling right now. Explanations fly through his head, but none of them make the acid in his throat dissipate or quell the tidal waves in his stomach. Max stumbles, and lands on a printed receipt.

_Flight 456, approx. takeoff 16:00 hours, bound for -_

Max doesn’t read anymore. He steps back, slowly - very, very slowly - out of Dorian’s room, turns around, and leaves his apartment, closing the door behind him. It echoes a soft click, and the automatic lock slides into place.

He gets into his car and drives to the nearest bar, calls up the restaurant, and cancels his reservation.

“My friend is sick, and we can no longer come.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, sir. We hope he recovers soon.”

Max swirls his beer around in his glass. “Yes, well, we’ll see about that. Have a good night.”

“Same to you, sir.”

He ends the call, and stares at the screen. The keyboard blinks up at him, and without a hint of hesitation, aided by the alcohol already humming in his veins, Max dials Dorian.

It rings, then rings again. A voice picks up, and Max’s fists clench in anticipation.

“UNFORTUNATELY, YOUR CALL CANNOT BE FORWARDED TO THIS NUMBER. THE NUMBER YOU HAVE DIALED IS OUT OF THE RANGE OF OUR SERVICE TOWERS. PLEASE TRY AGAIN, OR DIAL 1 FOR MORE INFORMATION. DIAL 2 FOR-”

Max ends that call, too.

Has another beer.

And tries again.

The bartender doesn’t say anything, and slides him another pint.

“On the house,” she says, and Max just drinks.

 

Dorian - approx. 19:30 hours

 

Felix is unable to see him until tomorrow.

So Dorian sits in his room and thinks over the day, then gasps.

“Max,” he says, once, out loud. “God, _Max_.”

 

Max - approx. 22:00 hours

 

Max had hit “pleasantly drunk” forty-five minutes ago. He was now at “stumbling, bumbling, drunk-out-of-his-mind” drunk, and he loved it. The bar had gotten ridiculously busy an hour ago. Four girls had hit on him - and six guys. He’d made out with two guys, one girl, and gotten numbers from the rest. Now, looking at his phone, a notification blares up.

_(3) Missed calls from dorian_

_(6) New messages from dorian_

“Oh, ho ho,” Max drawls, and turns off his phone. He slips outside the bar, trips his way over to his car, and slides into his seat. He reaches for the steering wheel, meticulously turns the key in the ignition, and laughs.

“Why did I ever think driving drunk would be a” _-hiccup-_ “bad thing?”

With that nugget of wisdom said, he pulls out into traffic.

 

Dorian - friday, approx. 23:40 hours

 

Dorian answers his phone, ignoring the nagging voice at the back of his head that says how expensive his phone bill will be, but damn it all, and -

“Dorian?”

“Bull,” Dorian breathes, relieved and aggravated, “quick, get Max on the phone, I have to talk to him, he isn't returning my calls-”

“Dorian,” Bull repeats, voice soft, and fear hits Dorian in the lungs like a freight train. “Hey, man, slow down. Max can't talk right now.”

“What happened to Max?” Dorian croaks, stumbling forwards, knees hitting the bed. He tumbles, lands, clutching the phone. “Bull. _Bull_. Tell me.”

Silence. “Max,” Bull says, voice cracked, “is in the hospital in critical condition.”

“ _What?_ ” he cries, sickness opening up in his gut, like a thousand cockroaches pouring out of his stomach, up his throat, out his mouth, legs scurrying along his teeth. “What happened?”

“He was in a car accident.” Bull sounds weary, too worn out to speak, but Dorian needs him to, needs him to go on. “They think he was driving drunk.”

Oh, God. Dorian thought maybe jaywalking, a freak accident, a mishap, a piano falling on his head, _anything_. Those would hurt, and hurt a lot, but there wouldn't be guilt. That, however, _that_ feels like he's falling and falling and falling, and there's no bottom, it's just a tunnel of black swallowing him, trapping him, and he can't, he can't stop falling. “No,” Dorian says, “no, no, no, no, Max, no, he knows better. He would never-”

“Dorian,” Bull says, but it's distant, and Dorian isn't just terrified, he's guilty, and that will eat him up faster than any fear. That this is his fault.

Max could die.

Because of him.

“If I don't respond,” Dorian says, tone rather pleasant for the occasion, “it's because I'm throwing up.”

“Dorian,” Bull says, but Dorian can't hear him over the ringing in his head.

 

Max - friday, approx. 23:50 hours

 

_Pain. Okay. Pain, and a lot of it._

_Lights? God, so many lights, God, why is it so bright, why do they hurt, why can’t I feel anything but pain, why is there-?_

              “Stop that, he needs-”

_Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, don’t touch that, that hurts, what do you think you’re-_

_Why can’t I move my hands? There is supposed to be a steering wheel there. Definitely supposed to be driving right now._

_Oh, God, I’m dying, I can feel it, there’s so much emptiness, where are my hands, where am I, why is nobody helping me-_

              “We’re losing him-”

_Dorian. I was supposed to see Dorian tonight, but then - oh God, God, I’m praying, help me, why does that hurt so much, is that-_

              “Is that him? Can I see him?”

_Warmth. Mom? Mom? Are you there? Tell them to stop hurting me! It hurts enough as it is!_

_Mom! MOM! Why aren’t you helping? MOM!_

              “Help my brother, for fuck’s sake! Don’t just sit there!”

_Evelyn?_

              “He’s flatlining - get her away from that door, she shouldn’t be there-”

_Oh, God, Evelyn._

              “Clear!”

_Blackness. Dorian wears black eyeliner._

              “Dammit, Max.”

_The voice sounds distinctly like his father._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long wait! i have the rest of this fic planned out, so it should be relatively smooth sailing from here out. thank you for all the hits and kudos!!!! i love you all!!!!!!
> 
> and yes, the format for both Dorian and max's phones are different. bc i see dorian with an iphone. and max with a samsung. and nobody can fight me on this. feel free, however, to fight me on their majors....... b/c i'm still ironing out those details. hammering them flat, baby.


	5. interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is short - an interlude, as it says - and the drama picks up again next chapter. sorry (not really) for being so so so so mean last chapter! have some fluff to make up for it.
> 
> also: check out my tumblr [here](http://peterqvll.tumblr.com) !!

_Two months earlier_

There's a cheesy rom-com playing on screen. Somewhere offstage a woman faints; you can hear it - the gasp, the clamber to the floor, the collective screaming - and the protagonist, this handsome, buff, well to-do man, rushes off to land at her side. Leaving, as these types of movies do, the traditionally unattractive woman alone as the man chooses his true love: a stereotypical white female, with blonde hair and blue eyes and a nose that doesn't jut off her face. Dorian absentmindedly traces Max's nose - on the face of a very tired, sleepy man, who'd fallen asleep half an hour ago.

Max shifts and snores a little louder, causing Dorian to stifle a laugh and drop his hand. It's picturesque, perfect; the nine pm sunset has dipped past the smoky horizon, the popcorn bowl is empty and the tv beams out happily the latest date night chick flick. All it needs is some candles for a little mood lighting and a bit of wine.

But Max doesn't drink wine, and Dorian hates candles because all they do is remind him of burning incense back - not home, Dorian doesn't call anywhere his father is 'home' - back there, when after dinner was a time of reflection and studies, with father watching him carefully as he so much as wrote down an 'A' on a sheet of homework.

This, though. This feels more like home than anything Dorian's ever known.

And he's known quite a bit - he's known the scratchy fabric of a bed in an abandoned house on the outskirts of town, he's known the uncomfortable task of rearranging himself on train seats, he's known the loneliness of an empty apartment where the only sound to be heard is the ticking of his clock.

Which, he admits, was never comforting - more like a countdown, more like a death sentence. More like a reminder.

You are no son of mine -

“Dorian,” Max whispers, and he flinches, drops the empty popcorn bowl.

"Max,” he replies, somewhat hesitantly - did he notice how he’d just fucking traced his nose? A blush starts forming on his cheeks.

“Did the movie end?” Max asks, groggy, sitting up, rubbing his eyes.

“Yeah.” That doesn’t seem like enough. “Yeah, it did, and it ended with the guy getting the girl. Per usual.”

Max snorts, then says, “Isn’t that how it always works out? Guy gets girl. They get married. Happily ever after.” He pauses, picking the empty popcorn bowl off the ground. “Don’t you ever wish it wasn’t the guy getting the girl, but the guy getting the guy?”

“Brokeback mountain,” Dorian says, even though he’s never seen it, and he doubts Max has, either.

Max jabs him with an elbow and - _ow, okay, that hurt, what does he have like metal buried in his bones that felt like solid steel_ \- Dorian nearly falls over from the brunt force. "Okay, message received," he snorts, and Max just sighs.

 _Oh, he was serious._ "Sorry," Dorian mumbles, "Max, listen -"

"It's fine," Max says. "I just - it all seems so -"

"I know," Dorian offers lamely. "I know."

"How did you know that I was gay?" Awkward silence. "In the gas station. When you kissed me."

Dorian takes a moment to absorb what Max says. Then, he clears his throat, adjusts his shirt, and waits for words - any words, at all - to leave his mouth. "I just did."

 _Okay, so, maybe not_ those _words._ "No, no - listen, listen. I just figured, if you were gay - or pan, or bi, or asexual or aromantic or whatever - that in today's society, we shouldn't automatically assume people are hetero." A deep breath. "And you were hot. And I really wanted that cereal. So I didn't know; I just stopped caring about 'if's' and 'but's' and did it."

Max hums, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. He does that, Dorian knows, when he's really thinking. Dorian doesn't want Max to over-think it, so he blurts out, "I still don't regret it."

"Good," Max says, letting his lip go free. "I don't, either."

"Well," Dorian says, rather jilted, but also very not, and also very confused, "should we hit the hay?"

Max stretches his arms, closes his eyes, and Dorian tries not to stare at the little sliver of skin the appears when he lifts his hands above his head and his shirt rides up. It's probably a sin, to have _that_ defined of a 'v' leading down your stomach, just practically - practically pointing. Disgusted by himself, Dorian stands up, and totters over to the kitchen. "I'm kinda hungry."

"There's some leftover sushi in the fridge," Max mutters, standing up and following him. "Also, some Doritos." He shakes the bag, and Dorian licks his lips. Max laughs.

_His laugh could re-awaken dead gods. Hades himself would jolt to life and offer him the riches of the Underworld in exchange for the power behind his laugh. Zeus would threaten to strike him down with thunder. Ares would start a war._

"You good with chips?"

"I'm _great_ with chips," Dorian replies, and he trails behind Max back to the couch, where they proceed to eat their way through an entire bag of Doritos, three stale twinkies - each - and a litre of Coke.

"But it's Coke Zero," Max whines, when Dorian hesitates to just take a swig, "it's just like drinking water."

"Drinking water is like drinking water," Dorian retorts, but he drinks anyways. Netflix plays the next episode of Arrested Development, and the conversation is dropped. Just like that.

Later, when they've binge-watched an entire season and regret sits heavy upon them like the sky does upon Atlas, Max nudges Dorian with his foot, as they lay, side-by-side, on the ground, covered in blankets and pillows. "Didn't you have a paper due tomorrow?"

Dorian has to think about that. "Yeah. But it's fine - it's due by five pm. That's plenty of time."

"Right," Max says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so no excuses here but explanations - i had exams. i had school exams, i had piano exams, i had tryouts for soccer. i had, in short, five hundred tonnes of stress weighing me down and i just had no inspiration for this. none. i'm sorry. it happens. but i'm back now! school is over, and i'm ready to get down to business and FINISH THIS THING
> 
> also i finished mass effect and i'm abt to re-do it then play me2 and me3 NICE
> 
> notes about the last chapter: i foreshadowed it, if you were looking. i'm sorry. yes, dorian is home, and no, i'm not saying what happens to max, and yes, dorian is blaming himself. wee-oo for angst and unhappy characters. wee-oo for finally getting thiS OUT HELL YEAH (hell yeah)
> 
> also: all your comments and kudos and even the hits themselves make my day!!!! thank you soo much for commenting and sliding in those kudos - you have no idea how much they mean, and how they inspire me. i just re-read all the ones on the last chapter, and i laughed - i'm sorry, i know i'm terrible - at the unhappiness. it was what i wanted! i didn't want it unbelievable, but it had to really hit home. don't drink and drive, cuties. ever.


	6. of regret and monty python references

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sorry!!!!!!!!

Dorian wakes up to the sound of rain.

Not that quiet rain, the kind that lulls you to sleep or urges you towards a windowpane to curl up in a blanket and sleep; not the torrential downpour of a hurricane, where winds whip water through your skin and howls as it rips down to earth; it is that lazy rain, a slow drip of fog that never failed to seem ominous and seed misgivings.

It reminds him of home, when his mother would read him a story while he was sick and the weather was terrible and she would brush back his hair and alter her voice for the characters and he would be so  _ happy  _ because she was sober and he was young and didn't know any better yet.

Home. He is home.

No, that isn't right. When Dorian thinks of home, he thinks of Max's little dinky apartment and his stupid sofa that has stains from Doritos and spilt 7-Up and what seems to be a permanent indent of Max's ass firmly implanted in a cushion. Max. When he thinks of home, he thinks of Max.

Where he is now, the hotel room he sits in, isn't home. Where he is now is another reminder of a night too sharp to hold in his hand.

He sits on the edge of his bed and rests his head between his knees.

Max, who is in critical condition because Dorian was too caught up in his own selfish quest to send one simple text to the best human being Dorian has had the luck and sheer stupidity to meet. The thought of Max dying - and here is where Dorian pauses and chokes and struggles to breathe. Dorian kneels down and grits his teeth and slams his fist against a pillow, something hard and jagged seeping through his veins to dangle in his fingers and toes and bury themselves in his ribcage. 

He rushes to the bathroom and vomits into the toilet for the umpteenth time. Wiping the back of his hand across his mouth a mite unsteadily, he rocks back and forth, swearing softly. 

 

* * *

 

 

Felix cracks a smile when he sees Dorian. Alexius, staring intently at his son, snaps his head up towards the door. The expression on his face quickly warps from pain to stunted happiness.

"Dorian," Felix says, and Alexius stands as Felix sits up. "I'm so glad to see you."

Dorian takes in the room - pristine white walls; glistening machines beeping at just the right tempo to induce a sense of security and a lullaby to sleep to; four high backed, cushioned chairs lined up at the bedside; and a whiteboard, with the words  _ Please call me Felix _ and  _ Nurse - Orana _ .

"Everyone's glad to see me," he responds smoothly, shaking Alexius' hand.

"None of that, now," his old mentor murmurs, and Dorian feels a crack appear in his façade. It's always the same with this mundane, insufferable, brilliant man. "Welcome home, Dorian." Alexius reaches out for him, and Dorian is not strong enough to stop himself from collapsing into the embrace.

They pull apart. "How was your trip?" asks Felix, and Dorian hesitates.

"Dorian?"

"It was fine," he says, arming himself to please, "but for this unknowingly inept child, which continuously tried to -"

"Dorian." Felix's voice digs into his skin and stops him short _.  _ "Something is wrong. Is it Max?"

"How do you know that anything is wrong?" he blurts out, and, yes, there goes any element of nonchalance he might've been clutching.

Alexius exits the room quietly, leaving Felix and Dorian, two polar opposites.

"Dorian," says Felix, voice heavy, and Dorian snaps.

"You shouldn't be offering me sympathy and pity," he snarls, hands shaking, feeling like a caged beast, "you're the one in the fucking hospital, you're the one who was diagnosed with lung cancer, and I’m just the one who looks like someone they loved was -"

"Was what?" Felix says, grasping Dorian's hand, pulling him into a chair. "Dorian."

"Like someone I loved was in a car crash because of my stupid actions." It doesn't feel good to get it out, more like shaking a soda until you open it and it explodes in your hands, spills onto your shirt and shoes.

"Tell me what happened."

So Dorian explains everything; the worry, the fear, the guilt, the unknowing of what will happen and the knowing of his own self causing the events leading up to the accident. He explains how Bull was the first one at the hospital, how Evelyn grabbed the phone from his hand and screamed at Dorian, how Bull wrenched the phone back from her and tried his damndest to heal the poison that was dripping into his bones. He explains that he was up for almost the whole night on the phone with Bull, getting updates from the doctor's and listening to Varric's stories when the ER room was empty and their motley crew was empty, too.

He explains how he loves Max so much it feels like he has to wake up someday and just the thought of him dying because of him makes him shake and collapse - and collapse he does, tears dripping down his cheeks and onto Felix's hand as it clenches and unclenches from pain and worry. He explains how he's afraid to be back because of his father, because his father will learn he came back to town and then demand why he didn't visit, while in the same breath cursing him for returning. 

He explains all this, then he sits still and watches Felix's heart monitor.

And then Felix speaks. "Go home, Dorian," he says, smiling. "Go home."

"But-"

"This isn't your home," he interrupts, "and it never has been. I'm fine - the doctors say it's in the beginning stages, and with regular chemo, I should be able to tough it out for a while longer." He glances at the door. "Dad isn't taking it well, but I've never been a healthy kid. I'll stick around for a bit, I guess, if only to clean up your messes."

Dorian bites back a grin, then exhales loudly and lets it go to smile at his friend. "Felix-"

"Max needs you," he says,  _ sotto voce _ , "and you need Max. Bring him up here to visit when he's healthy again. And talk to your dad, will you? For me. He misses you," he adds, closing his eyes. 

The heart monitor whirs silently, and Dorian rests his hand on Felix's and sits beside his bed until the nurses arrive.

Alexius pats him on the back when he leaves. Dorian smiles at him for a fleeting moment before disappearing out the door to go home.

As he slips out the automatic exit and the whir echoes behind him, he is reminded - painfully reminded - of the night he met Max, and then he keels over, his skin crawling and muscles tensing as he stumbles into the parking lot.

"Dorian."

He looks up. "Halward Pavus."

His father hesitates. "Alexius called."

Dorian scowls, struggles to stand up. "Of course he did."

His father offers his hand. "Will you... come visit? For the day." A pause.

Dorian is smart enough to recognize an olive branch when he is offered one, gnarled and burnt and broken as it is. "I... yes." Dorian takes the hand gratefully.

"Your mother will be happy to see you."

"No need for the dramatics," Dorian says, but it's weak, and he climbs into the backseat of his father's BMW with no complaint.

Streets - familiar, achingly familiar streets - pass with little fanfare, and then the gate unlocks and he's in the driveway, between the fountains, pulled up in front of the door and he's there, standing, alive. Little details spring up everywhere: the statue where he kissed that boy who was the son of a senator; the window he climbed out of to sneak off to parties; steps where he used to draw chalk figurines; that same lawn chair he always sat in when he studied outside. Memories flood him until he aches with the weight of it all.

"Come," Halward Pavus says, and he follows diligently. "Your mother made some changes. Moved... things."

Dorian can tell. "I can tell," he replies. "That hideous armchair certainly was never in the tearoom before."

Halward Pavus laughs. "That was a gift from a visiting prime minister."

"Of course it was," he says, dry, and pokes his head into the kitchen. It sits empty, no chef loitering in the off-hours. Pristine appliances smirk back at him, and he pulls back into the hallway where his father waits. "Where is mother?"

"I assume she rests in the garden, as per her habit these days."

Dorian bites back a snide  _ And how much alcohol has your personality caused her to consume today?  _ to say, "Do you want to come with me-"

"You'd do best to see her alone. She hasn't been the same since you, ah. Since you left for college."

_ Ever politically correct as always, father, especially when it comes to family,  _ he thinks, and patters down the hallway, pulling his jacket closer as he nears the french doors leading out to the patio. He can see her through the glass, a mug in one hand and a book in the other. One deep breath, then another, and he's mustered up the courage to open the door. His footsteps feel heavy and graceless as she looks up.

"Hello, mother," he says, and the coffee mug shatters as it hits the smooth concrete. "While I know it's hard not to, don't just sit there and stare."

" _ Dorian _ ," his mother - his dearest and ailing and beautiful and drunken and lovely and confused mother - breathes, throwing herself off her chair to launch onto him. He accepts the embrace with surprising ease, inhaling her distinct smell of coffee and jasmine, without, to his delight, the acrid tang of alcohol. 

"Mother," he responds, shaking like a house in an August hurricane, mercifully released from his mother's arms. "Bringing back jasmine perfume, I see."

To this comes a flurry of words. He picks out a few:  _ Dorian  _ and  _ your father  _ and  _ I am never told anything  _ and  _ I love you. _

"I went to rehab," she says, and Dorian's world tilts. " _ Dorian.  _ Did you hear me? For you. And your father."

"Mother," he whispers, tears already on his cheeks, and she wipes them off with a crooked thumb. 

"My beautiful boy," she says, thumb on his jawline, his hand mercifully unclenched, and together, beside the remnants of an early morning coffee, they sit.

 

* * *

 

 

"Come back soon," his mother says, wiping at her eyes with a wet handkerchief. Dorian hugs her one last time before pausing in front of his father. 

"Dorian," his father says, "I-"

"I know, father," Dorian says. Their separation has not aided the guilt that hollows out his stomach. “I’ll see you in a year, yes?” 

He turns on his foot and moves forward, left eyebrow feeling quizzically twitchy.

"Wait!" his father says, and Dorian is ashamed at how quickly he spins back to face his parents. "My son," Halward Pavus says, loud and clear, ringing above the din of the airport, quiet pride echoing in the silence between words. "My brilliant son."

"I love you, too," Dorian says, blinking the salt out of his eyes, and then the crowd sweeps him up. He pretends the dampness on his cheek is sweat, and walks away.

 

* * *

 

 

The flight is a long one. 

His head reels: all inquisitive fingers poking into dusty corners, brushing past cobwebs to pull out treasured memories; all curious thoughts tugging out a train of revelations and worries that keep him gnawing on a thumb out of habit.

When he finally arrives in the airport, Cole is waiting for him. 

"Dorian," he says, taking his bags from him with easy grace, "you look better."

The urge to laugh nudges at him. "I suppose I do."

"Your happiness isn't dependent on their expectations," Cole says, peering at him.

"I - yes. I know. Thank you, Cole."

Dorian is surprised by the truth, but decides not to say so.

 

* * *

 

 

"I'm here to see Maxwell Trevelyan."

The woman at the counter taps the keys painfully slow. "How do you -"

"T-R-E-V-E-L-Y-A-N." 

She peers at the screen, and Dorian fights back the need to slam her head into the computer if only so she'd move faster. "Room 356, Emergency Ward. He's being transferred pretty soon-"

"Thank you," he says, and dashes into the hospital.

Various nurses and doctors yell after him to slow down, but he ignores all of them.

 

* * *

 

 

"I'm sorry," is the first thing Dorian says when he sees Evelyn waiting outside Max's room.

"He hasn't woken up," she says, mouth in a firm line, and Dorian slides in with his heart a drumming song.

The potential  _ amor du son vie _ lies still on a perfectly white and crisp hospital bed, sheets tucked and pillows fluffed. His breathing is steady and bandages cover almost every inch of his body, tubes in his nose and arm and stomach and Dorian clenches his fists, his own nails leaving crescents in his palms.

"I'm so sorry," he says, "I'm so sorry, Max." He watches the heart monitor with a sickening feeling of relief and guilt; relief he's alive and still breathing, the proof beeping away happily in front of him; guilt that Dorian was the one to land him here, where the only indication of life is the minute rise and fall of his chest. "God, Max. I'm so sorry."

There isn't a reply; not that he was expecting one. He grasps a limp hand between his own and rests his forehead against the bed, breathing deeply. Max's hand is cool and clammy; lifeless. "I'm so sorry," Dorian whispers. "I'm so sorry. Don't die on me, Max. You can't do this to me." He does not hear the door close. "Maxwell Trevelyan, I order you to stay alive, because I'm selfish and I  _ need you. _ "

 

* * *

 

 

"So," Evelyn says, "you and Max were supposed to go on a date."

Dorian's mouth twists into a grimace. "This is my fault."

Evelyn barks out a wet laugh, and Cullen grips her hand, leaning over to whisper something in her ear. Bitterness dissipates from her face, overtaken by fatigue. "The doctors are still trying to figure out all that's wrong."

Dorian's throat is unpardonably dry. "You haven't disagreed."

Evelyn doesn't look at him for a while, mouth moving, as if tasting out words. "I don't subscribe to the philosophy," she says, slow, "that we should carry the weight of our mistakes on our backs." She twiddles her thumbs absently. "I don't think this is your fault. I don't think this is anyone's fault. Max is alive, and that's what matters.” Evelyn rubs at her eyes and breathes in deeply, before staring at the ceiling. "You want this to be your fault so you can blame yourself even more, because you think you don't deserve good things. That's not true. You do. And sometimes, things happen, and there's nothing we can do about it."

Dorian does not have to voice to reply, except for a weak “Thank you.”

Evelyn smiles, sparing a glance for Cullen. "Remember, Dorian, to  _ always _ look on the bright side of life."

 

* * *

 

 

As Dorian is about to leave, he looks at Evelyn and says, "That thing you said earlier. Always look on the bright side of life. Where is that from?" 

"Oh, that," she laughs, "that's from Monty Python's Life of Brian. Max and I watch those movies all the time."

She hums the tune, and Dorian grins. She watches him carefully, then says, "Do you know it?"

"No. Never seen it." He smiles, a half-forgotten one. "Max said that to me once," he adds, in response to her expression, and then he leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in my defense im a piece of shit so this shouldn't be that much of a surprise but i've had this in my draft for almost a year and i have just hated it forever but i realized that i hate people who never updated fic and i don't want to become the author i hate SO im woman-ing up and posting this. i hope that i get back into writing. my life is a little sad without it, and more stressful. here you all go please don't hate me and i hope you enjoyed maxwell trevelyan staying alive for a little while longer and mama pavus making an appearance. it's messy and a little short but. it's here. i got really self-conscious on here for a while; i was really obsessed with getting hits and i never wanted to update and i still don't, but now i get it. i'm just sharing a little part of me. thank you all for reading. and leaving kudos and comments. it means a lot to me that you're willing to read something i put me into.


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